


Come and Open Wide, Let Me See Inside

by Eristastic



Category: End Roll (Video Game)
Genre: Healing, M/M, Mild Blood, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8358802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eristastic/pseuds/Eristastic
Summary: There's a special kind of torture: wanting to be the most important person to someone, seeing them gradually grow distant from you, and knowing that you're supposed to be happy about it.
'I'm not like them, so why won't you let me in?'





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by Mikito-P's [Setsuna Plus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-o3MbJmYJc) (title from Jubyphonic's [English lyrics](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5hhzYmgCNs)), as I continue to wipe my Vocaloid-stained hands over everything I write.

The Informant couldn’t say what wakes him up, other than that it’s a feeling. A twinge of something, and then he’s blinking, rubbing his eyes of the dream he can now barely remember. For a moment he’s genuinely confused, but the door opens, Russell comes in, and the world slots back into place.

Russell was near, so the Informant woke up. It makes perfect sense.

He doesn’t say anything, of course – not even a greeting – but he nods in the Informant’s way and starts to climb the rope near the books. The Informant watches him, a smile plastered on his face, until Russell’s gone and there’s nothing to say he was ever here, apart from the way the Informant’s heart is thudding inside his chest. Very slowly, just in case Russell comes back too quickly, he lowers himself into a crouch and buries his head in his legs.

He hadn’t been ready. Well, he probably had been, but he’s going to use that excuse. It’s just embarrassing, really it is, even though Russell never notices (whether that’s because he’s dense or because the Informant’s too good at hiding his emotions, the Informant has no idea). More embarrassing still is the desperate kind of hope that’s fluttering in his lungs now: ‘ _He’s going to the Wise One’s Dungeon – he might call me. Is he going to call me?_ ’

No, he won’t. He never does. The one time he did, it was because Gardenia asked him to (she’d wanted to know if the Informant would like to come over for dinner that night), and the Informant had been so nervous he hadn’t even been able to turn the conversation to a subject where he might show off how useful he was.

Because he is useful, really. He’s not just a bundle of nerves locked up in a smiling, flawless shell.

Really.

Breathing calmly, he gets up and leans against the desk, tipping his head back. Russell isn’t going to call. He isn’t going to call. The ringtone of the Informant’s phone is very loud, and he’d hear it if it went off. Even if he thinks he hears things that might maybe sound like the first note, it’s not the phone. He’s imagining things.

He’s a wreck, that’s what he is.

Cody and Yumi are chatting outside: he can hear them, he’s straining his ears so hard. Some platitude about the monster that eventually devolves into chatting about Homeward Rootie harvests and where they should go out for drinks next time they have a chance. The conversation goes on for approximately ten minutes before Yumi has to leave, and Russell still hasn’t called. The Informant pushes his body back into a standing position and walks stiffly over to the sofa only to slump down again, aimlessly. There’s never anything to do, but the Informant isn’t here to live, he’s here to inform. He never gets the chance to, but that’s what he’s here for anyway. He’s not here to pine.

He curls up on the sofa and pines a bit anyway.

Eventually, as his eyes glaze over and his breathing slows, time stops meaning quite so much. It swims around him with no clocks to count it, and only the steady numbness creeping through the arm he’s lying on to tell him it’s passing at all. He wonders how Russell’s doing. Is he having trouble? He must be: it’s not an easy dungeon. He should call for help. The Informant could probably give him a hint or two. But then, Russell’s got his friends for help, too. It makes sense that he’d ask them first.

And to think he’d get to this particular dungeon so quickly… The Informant rolls over onto his back, staring blankly at the ceiling with a pillow held to his chest. It won’t be long before he can go to the Book Graveyard. That’s a thought. Not a nice one, but a thought.

‘ _Do I want him to go there?_ ’

The Informant doesn’t know. There’s the immediate answer – _no_ – motivated by shame and privacy, but then there’s something else. The burning need to open up, to have Russell see everything. To lay himself bare, as they say, and see what Russell does.

Nothing, probably. The Informant smiles a little bitterly. He could offer his heart and soul up, and Russell wouldn’t react. And that’s if he can even be said to have a soul in the fir–

The Informant springs to his feet like he’s been shocked, but rather than electricity, it’s that twinge again. He drops the pillow and stares at the rope. It’s shaking. It takes two minutes of breathless waiting for Russell to get to the bottom and brush his hands down.

“Did you have fun?” the Informant asks, smiling. It’s after he’s said it that Russell turns around and the Informant can see him properly, blood and all. There are spatters on his shirt, several cuts on his face, and at least one bruise blossoming on his temple.

The Informant blinks. “Didn’t you have a healer with you?” he asks blankly, his eyes flitting from cut to cut.

“They left before I let them heal me,” Russell says, staring at the wall. “I forgot. I used up all my pills too.”

“That’s unfortunate,” the Informant says meekly when what he really wants to do is run to him. But that’s inappropriate and he’d just get rejected, so he’d do better to forget about it.

Russell nods, his hand clasping the opposite forearm. He takes a breath and finally makes eye contact. “Do you have any bandages?”

 

*

 

The Informant did not wake up this morning thinking he’d be spending his afternoon like this. Russell is sitting on the sofa next to him, giving no impression that he feels anything at all, and the Informant is doing his best to clean up the blood with what healing prowess he has (none).

“Do you not have the walnuts to buy pills? Or do you not feel like taking them?” he asks softly. Softly, because he hardly has the breath to speak; he keeps his eyes focussed on disinfecting the cut on Russell’s cheek. Their legs are touching and he can’t stop thinking about it.

“No. It’s not the same. Sorry: this is annoying. I’ll do it myse–”

“No, it’s fine!” he blurts out, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. “It’s fine. I don’t have anything to do, anyway.”

“If you say so,” Russell says, and winces. The Informant drops his hand and the slightly blood-stained cotton ball. The cut’s disinfected enough, he guesses. He drops the ball into the bin and reaches over to the assorted medical supplies to find a plaster. Russell shakes his head.

“There’s no point in wasting one. I’ll just wake up without it tomorrow morning.”

The Informant looks at him, the plaster’s packaging half-undone in his fingers. There’s sense in what Russell’s saying, of course. There’s also stupidity. He pulls the plaster out, unfolds it and sticks it on Russell’s cheek.

He’s glared at, but from so close, even that sets his heart racing.

“Just one,” he says weakly, like an excuse.

“I said it was a waste.”

“What else am I going to use them for?”

For a moment longer, Russell looks at him (unblinking, too intense, far too intense), and then he moves his head a hair to look in front again. It’s as good as a shrug, the Informant supposes. He goes back to swabbing.

There are disadvantages to having such a quiet house, of course. The loneliness is one. This is another. All he can hear are their breaths and his own heart as he cleans up blood and dirt from Russell’s face. He has to get up and stand directly in front of Russell to get at one. Russell closes his eyes, and it’s so overwhelming that the Informant genuinely can’t move for a second or two. How is it possible that they have the same face and yet he can’t get enough of looking at Russell’s? Every detail is a gift; the vulnerable softness (of his eyebrows, the curve of his nose, the ridge of his upper lip) is like a blessing, and the Informant considers getting on his knees and giving thanks for it, but that would be weird.

Instead, he gets on his knees to start working on Russell’s arm. Unbuttoning the cuff and rolling the sleeve up as gently as he can, he asks, “You told them not to heal you, didn’t you?”

Russell doesn’t say anything for a while, but that’s normal. The Informant takes the time to wince in sympathy at the slight gasp Russell makes when his sleeve has to be ripped from the cut, and then wince again at the state of Russell’s arm. It’s a miracle it missed the major veins. The Informant rinses a cloth and starts to wipe down Russell’s skin.

“It wasn’t quite like that,” Russell eventually says.

“No? What was it like, then?”

“I didn’t take enough capsules.”

“Did you take enough of anything?”

“No.”

The Informant doesn’t sigh, though he’d like to. The water in the bowl next to his knees is now pink. “Were you trying to challenge yourself or something? That’s not really what this is about.”

“I wasn’t trying to do that.”

“If you’re sure. So let me get this straight: no one had enough magic left to heal you? Did you make sure everyone else got healed first?”

Russell nods.

“Figures. I’m surprised they let that stand.”

“I was hiding this.” He looks pointedly down at the arm the Informant is currently washing.

“Ah.” He starts to rub harder at the dried blood close to the broken skin, trying not to hear how irregular Russell’s breathing is. “They weren’t happy, I take it?”

“No. They weren’t.”

The Informant does sigh then. “Russell, it’s wonderful that you’re putting other people before you – though it’s never really been a sacrifice to put yourself in harm’s way, has it? It’s just how things are for you. But anyway. You need to try and make these people your friends. That means opening up to them. Telling them when you’re hurt so they can help. You can’t just lie to them so that they only get your good parts.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“No, you wouldn’t. That wall you keep up really is impressive, did you know? Tell me: is it that you don’t want them to see your weaknesses specifically, or is it that, when you’re with them, you want to pretend you’re better than you are?”

The conversation’s twisted again. It always does this: that’s what the Informant is here for. He hates every word coming out of his mouth, but he can’t stop: soft reassurance and gentle comfort just isn’t his style. It’s not allowed to be, no matter how much he wishes it were.

Would Russell like him then? Or no, wouldn’t Russell just shut him out?

“I don’t want them to worry,” Russell says. His hand is shaking, and the Informant can’t work out whether it’s because he’s tensing it against the pain or because of something else. Either way, the Informant finds himself taking it in his own free hand, finishing the cleaning with only his right.

“I know you don’t. But don’t you think they’re worrying now?”

“…probably.”

“But it’s the acceptable kind of worrying?” he asks wryly, and looks up just in time to see Russell smile. Actually smile. At something the Informant said.

For a brief moment, everything is golden.

And then Russell says, “Something like that,” and his neutrality is back, the spell’s broken, and the Informant looks down again. He needs to start disinfecting – it takes three tries for him to get the cap off the bottle, because he won’t let go of Russell’s hand.

There’s a question burning on his tongue, but he can’t quite say it. He keeps making excuses. He needs to disinfect the cut, clean it again. He needs to get out the bandages, because here they’re necessary and Russell won’t convince him otherwise. He needs to try and wrap them with only one hand – Russell puts his finger on one end to hold it in place, and then it’s easier.

As he’s wrapping, conscious of every movement he makes, he asks, “Do you think I don’t worry? Is that why you came here?”

There’s no reply, but again, that’s fine. The Informant finishes off the bandage and reaches around to find a safety pin. There isn’t one, and he’s trying to tuck the bandage in on itself when Russell answers him.

“You’re not like them,” he says simply.

It’s nothing more than the truth. There’s barely the hint of an implication, but the Informant wouldn’t be who he is if he couldn’t read into Russell’s every word. Despising himself, he says, “And you’re lonely, aren’t you? You can’t show them who you are, so you’re left alone. And then I’m the only one left.”

He hates this, he hates himself, he hates Happy Dream for making him like this. He doesn’t want to lord it over Russell, he doesn’t want to be contemptuous – he just wants to hug him.

Russell says, quite calmly, “You are. You already know everything. And you told me once that I should come to you if I needed anything.”

Their hands are still together; the Informant’s skin is so sensitive it hurts.

“Unusual of you to take an offer like that up.” He hates this, why can’t he just be honest, he hates it, he hates it, he hates it

“But you’re you. If I can’t show myself like this to you, then I can’t be around anyone.”

“You used to think that was fine.”

“It was. It isn’t now. I want to scream that I’m fine alone, that I don’t need anyone, but I’ve started to think that I might.”

“A terrible side effect of having friends, that. You get used to having people to be with.”

“Yeah. But they don’t need to see this, so there’s only you. Sorry.”

“No, you…you don’t need to be sorry.”

The unspoken words are as good as said. To think that the Informant would live to see the day Russell’s walls came down, or rather, the day he would take them down himself. And it’s only temporary (good), and it’s only for him ( _good_ ), but it’s done, and the Informant is filled with such raw, weeping relief that he can’t even say anything obnoxious about it. All he can do is take Russell’s hand in both of his, lower his forehead to it, and try not to cry.

“Anytime,” he says, and loathes how thick his voice sounds. “Anytime you need someone else, come to me. Tell me about it. I’ll make it all go away, so please, come to me.”

There’s no reply for a long time, but that’s normal. The Informant sucks in his breaths, tries to gulp away the lump in his throat, and waits. He’ll wait for the rest of his life if he has to.


End file.
